Though Few Will Follow
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Shortly after Ahsoka Tano's secession from the Jedi Order, Anakin Skywalker (her former Master) is asked by Obi-Wan Kenobi to rescue an old enemy: Asajj Ventress.


_**(ANAKIN)**_

"If I didn't know you any better, Anakin, I'd say your one passion in life is moping."

At Obi-Wan's wry remark, my head snaps up. I've been slumped atop a bench for quite some time now, my gaze absently perusing the sights and muted colors of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and I'll admit it: I've been sulking. Caught up in my own dejected, self-pitying reverie, which is supposedly un-Jedi-like or something. Unless you're Mace Windu, whose stolid, stony features appear to forever mourn the fact that he was born without a sense of humor.

Or maybe it just slipped through his grasp at the beginning of war. After all, pretty much every Jedi who survived Geonosis perpetually frowns, eyes glowering at their boots or some hidden memory. Tries to pretend as though they can go on—live on—with shedding tears for the fallen.

Because I know I have. And I will. And do—that's what I'm doing here, perched hapless on this bench. Why I'm pretending to mope, to balk. To hang my head, letting my shoulders sag and my gaze dim.

I'm mourning someone I should've kept from falling.

I'm mourning my former apprentice, Ahsoka Tano.

But I don't tell Obi-Wan this. I don't elaborate as to why I'm, alone in this sound-filled yet oh-so-silent room, and I don't plan to. He's probably guessed it, yes—he knows how Ahsoka's secession from The Order has affected me, has touched and burnt me in vulnerable places. But somehow leaving it unspoken, unvoiced, makes things seem little less complicated, less difficult.

Remaining silent almost makes me believe she never left.

Ambling up to my seat, Obi-Wan shakes his head. "You do realize you should be doing something, right? You're wasting a positively beautiful day."

I frown slightly. Honestly, I haven't checked to see what it's like outside today, haven't poked my head through one of the Temple's large, opulent windows. In fact, I haven't done that in a while. "Define 'positively beautiful day'."

"Well, it's not raining, for one thing. And the sun isn't particularly hell-bent on frying anyone's skin, either."

Despite the fact that I'm supposed to be respectable, venerable Jedi, I find myself rolling my eyes. "I think most beings call that 'normal' weather, Obi-Wan. Especially on Coruscant; the whole blasted planet is climate-controlled, I swear."

"It is. But even Coruscant weather can be a bit…un-reliant." His clear blue eyes drift away for a moment, lost in some private thought. Are going distant, wistful. Are tinged with nostalgia and bittersweet reminiscing. "It actually snowed once, when I was younger."

"So that was…what? A couple of millennia ago?"

"That was so funny that I nearly forgot to laugh."

"I tend to have that effect."

Standing now at my shoulder, Obi-Wan chuckles softly. So do I. We're family, the two of us—or something close to it. And although we're not related by blood, although I once railed against him and he balked at taking me under his wing—although we've splintered one another's hearts often enough that our palms drip scarlet…there's nothing that can break this. That can tear this bond in two.

Nothing in _this_ universe, at least.

"So…" I prompt, when our moment of playful banter has passed. "I get the feeling that you're not here just to talk about the weather."

"As delightful a subject that is, I'm afraid not." He glances down at me, a grey, bleak expression painting his features. "You heard about Barriss, I suppose?"

The name sends a chill inching down my spine. Yes, I did. Everyone has. Problem is, no one really believes it—because no one _wants_ to. They'd rather cover their eyes, shield their vision from the scalding truth of what's happened. Of the reality of a Jedi's seemingly abrupt plunge into the dark.

But it's not just Barriss' corruption that has everyone reeling. I mean, turning to the dark side is one thing—a terrible, dreadful thing—and it's not something to be taken lightly. Not something to tip-toe around, to side-step or evade. But the way she slipped, the path her downward spiral eked out, is something altogether atypical—and disconcerting.

Altruism sent her to the dark.

Because, unlike most, she began with good intentions. She disapproved of the war, of the tides of blood and death it sent crashing over the galaxy in a deluge, and she wanted to put a stop to. To end the violence and unnecessary death, which she believed the Jedi were now responsible for. We'd fallen from our pedestal, she'd said, had become something we were never intended to be: war-machines.

I won't get into all the grisly details. I won't. But in the end, she wound up accomplishing something far more heinous than mere treachery.

She betrayed a friend. Stabbed her in the back. Framed her for a crime worthy of death—and ruined her good name.

She turned on Ahsoka.

So this begs the question: is doing the wrong things for the right reason evil? Or does the end really justify the means, like everyone says? Ending the war, after all, is the goal of their entire Order: it's why we're in this fight, our own blood spilling on battlefield upon battlefield in a crimson tide. And I'd think we'd all agree that we're willing to do anything—whatever it takes—to bring this gory affair to a screeching halt.

Only…how far is too far?

I want to ask someone—ask Obi-Wan, namely—but not today. Not now. So I simply nod my head, and plaster an unreadable expression across my face. "Yeah. Her trial starts today, right?"

"She's pleading guilty, so…no. It's not a trial. Not quite." Frowning, he draws a hand over his beard. "For all intents and purposes, one could call this a sentencing hearing."

To decide whether or not her crimes deserve capital punishment, I bet. But I don't say this, or even let the thought show through on my face—because it'd be insensitive. Callous. Rather, I risk a glance up Obi-Wan, consider him warily. "I'm getting the feeling that this has something to do with me."

"Not if you don't want it to."

I cock a brow. "But you want me to want it to."

For half nano-second, Obi-Wan hesitates. Chews on his lip. Then he sighs, lowering himself onto my bench. "Is it that obvious?"

"If it was any more obvious, you'd be wearing a flashing holo-sign."

A grimace. "I'm not asking you to do anything—"

"You don't have to: I can tell that whatever this is, it's important to you…or that it should be important to me."

"It is," he replies, "but it's even more vital that I have you with me on this. For practical _and_ personal reasons."

My voice is suddenly guarded as I ask, "that you have me with you on _what_?"

He hesitates again, then shrugs, hapless. "I won't lie to you: you're not going to like it. But you need it, Anakin: it'll help you find your feet again." Another flash of reluctance. "I want you to help me locate a witness, Anakin. For Barriss' trial."

Everything in me suddenly goes rigid. Rock solid. I don't blink, don't breath; I don't even meet Obi-Wan's gaze, as clear and fluid as the fountains whispering about me, their hushed voices attempting to drown out the answer reverberating through my skull.

"No."

Beside me, Obi-Wan blinks. Sits up a little. His face isn't registering shock—not quite—but I can tell that my response was pretty unexpected. Or he's trying hard to believe it was. "Anakin, I understand that this will be difficult for you. I get that—I honestly do. But you can't simply mope around the Temple for the rest of your life, consumed with grief—"

"Who says I'm grieving?" I snap, head whipping around to shoot him a frigid glare.

"Your behavior does, for one thing," he answers evenly, not rising to the bait. "The sulkiness, the lack of interest, your anger—those are all classic signs of grief, Anakin. And while a Jedi is certainly allowed to feel these things, he doesn't _drown_ in them." A little durasteel enters his gaze and voice. "Especially during wartime."

Jaw working furiously, I grind my teeth. I'm _allowed_ to feel grief? I'm _permitted_? Well, good to know, Obi-Wan. I'll be sure to add that my list of '_Emotions The Jedi Don't Forbid_' when I'm done—

"I am _not_ grieving," I bite out, voice a gravelly hiss.

"Then you'll help me find her?"

I show a quizzical—and positively peeved—look. "Her?"

"The witness," he clarifies, situating himself into more comfortable position on the bench.

"And who would that be? Not that I'm joining in on this mynoc-brained scheme or anything, but just out of curiosity."

Beneath his beard, Obi-Wan's mouth twitches wryly. "Yes. Well, you know what they say about _that._"

Irritation stirs. "About what?"

"About curiosity."

I make a face. "Not really…"

"It killed the vine-cat."

"So finding this witness…" I sit up, folding my arms across my chest. "It's going to be dangerous?"

A shrug. "Not particularly. Unless you don't approach this situation delicately—which you're often prone to do, I've noticed. Especially when the stakes are high."

"And how high are they?"

My friend leans forward, eyes impossibly grave. "As high as the Jedi's good name. If we can bring her back to the fold, back to the light, then perhaps the public will—"

"Wait a second…bring her _back_? Back from what? From…"

And then it dawns on me: this isn't about Barriss. None of it is. This is about proving something—to the public, to our critics…and ourselves.

We're going to show that a Jedi can fall…and rise.

There are only a handful of fallen Jedi who're within our grasp, though. Dooku's out, obviously—he's far too powerful to reason with, has wile and cunning that the most devious fox could envy. So's Sora Bulq. And Depa Billaba…well, her condition is best left unsaid. So that leaves…

My eyes widen with sudden comprehension. "No. _No,_ Obi-Wan: this isn't going to work. She's too dangerous, and—"

Obi-Wan lifts a hand, motioning for my silence. "In the past, perhaps. But just look at what how she's changed: she not only helped me, but she also rendered aid to Ahsoka."

"That bogwitch _was_ going to turn her into the Senate," I remind him, voice raising an octave. "For a bounty. That's what she is, after all: a bounty hunter. And it's why she was there to rescue you from that barve Maul, too: Savage had a price on his head. One that was too good to pass up, I'm betting."

My former mentors stares. "When did you become so cynical? And…crotchety?"

When the war began, its red flares lighting the sky crimson. When a Jedi like Barriss—dependable, orthodox, selfless—fell to the dark. When she tossed Ahsoka aside, leaving her to the wolves of the Justice System. "It's not cynicism, Obi-Wan. It's _realism_. Because let's face it: she was trained by a Sith. And Sith sorta have habit of, oh, I don't know…_back-stabbing?_"

Tilting his head off to one side, Obi-Wan straightens, folds his arms across his chest. "And so do certain Jedi, if I remember correctly."

I shoot him a look. "That's not fair, and you know it."

"What's not fair? That I'm comparing Barriss to a Sith? Or that Ventress has the same potential as her—to become what she could not?"

Once more, I don't allow myself to react to any of Obi-Wan's words. I can't. If he knew how I really felt, if he had inkling as to turmoil waging within me, he'd treat me differently. With sympathy. With pats on the back. So stuffing my emotion, letting pile on till they're ready to burst—it's the only way. Is the only path that won't lead him to think I'm weak. Unworthy.

And then I blink. It's the first time either of us has directly mentioned her by name during our conversation, and it brings some gravity. Some sense of realism, too; until now, we've only been talking in abstract terms. Of dark and light, falling and rising. But mentioning her name—saying _Ventress_ loud and clear—starts to make this situation seems more practical, tangible. Even human.

Which begs the question: If I ever fell, would I want someone to bring me back? To return me to the fold? Or would I prefer to languish there, forever caught in the dark's clawed embrace?

Would I want return to the light?

Instead of articulating this to Obi-Wan, however, I just nod. Pretend I never thought that. After all, it's not your typical, everyday musing—and it's not all that Jedi-like, either. So he'd probably just lecture me, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'd never fall.

Or perhaps I'm afraid he wouldn't.

Dragging a hand over face, I sigh. I know what I have to do. I _know_. But it's not going to be easy, isn't going to be a road that I'd pictured myself on.

Then again, the right choices often take the paths less-traveled.

My head snaps up. "I'll do it."

Obi-Wan blinks, nonplussed. "Do what?"

"The _mission_, blast it. I'll do it. I'll help you find Ventress."

His go completely solemn…and absolutely still. "There's more to rescuing than seeking and finding, Anakin."

"I know. But finding her's going to make this a heckuva lot easier, that's for sure." I slap my hands to my thighs. "So, when do we get started? Today? Tomorrow? Not that it matters or anything—I mean, I've got a pretty open schedule…"

A weary sigh. "Anakin."

And now for some rain on the parade—Kenobi style. "Yeah?"

"It's just that…" He pauses for a moment, then bites his lip. "Are you certain you're doing this for the right reasons, Anakin? Because you seem to be getting into this rather quickly. _Too_ quickly—even for you."

Getting to my feet, I raise my hands in protest. "Hey, _you're_ the one who accused me of moping, remember? You wanted me to do something, get outside. Frolic with the younglings. Whatever."

"I'd be much happier," Obi-Wan replies slowly, "if you were going about it more slowly. I've told you once, and I'll tell you again: a great leap forward often requires taking two steps back."

"And I think my response to that usually is, 'sometimes, all it requires is the will to jump'."

Obi-Wan considers me solemnly. "And a blind leap usually leads to a fall."

But I'm not Barriss, so…well, we'll see.

_**(OBI-WAN)**_

As our speeder bikes carry us into the nether levels of the Coruscant metropolis, I'm swiftly reminded of just how much I hate this place. No, that's too weak of a word; it'd imply that I'm merely peeved by the lower levels, irked by it. This feeling I have is raw, festering, open to the air…and it won't go away. Not easily, that is.

I loathe the Coruscant Underworld.

Glancing over my shoulder, I scrutinize Anakin for what seems like the umpteenth time today. I can't really make out his expression—the wind is whipping his hair about his face, and the dim lighting is casting stark shadows across his features, creating a chiaroscuro effect. But I can read his piercing blue eyes, so I do get a feel of what his attitude toward this place might be.

Although, I suppose it'd be easier to simply read his force aura, pry a little into private world. It really would. Except…well, something's telling me that this wouldn't be entirely wise move. Wouldn't be prudent, or practical. And besides, I get the distinct, uncanny feeling that I might not want to.

Because I might not like what I see.

But never mind that. We're on a mission, the two of us. Our first one together since…Onderon, I think? Or…no, I believe it was that fiasco at diplomatic convention, when that blasted bomb nearly shredded our flagship to pieces.

Not my fondest memory, to say the least. Not in the slightest. So here, speeding into the ebony of the underworld with Anakin at my side, I'm expecting to create some new ones. Specifically _bomb-free_ ones, too.

I have far too many cheerless memories as it is.

But…oh, never mind. I cannot dwell on the past forever. I have to move forward, forge new paths to intersect with the old, and I have to put this behind me. Put in the past, where it belongs.

Still…

"We're getting ready to make our first stop, Master. Hope you're thirsty."

Blinking myself out of my dank reverie, I shoot my former padawan a side-long glance. Follow his gaze, and realize where we're drifting to. After all, there's no mistaking the flashing lights, the strobe of insistent, incessant colors and raucous, bawdy laughter.

As we begin to slow our descent, I give him my best _I-Really-Do-Hope-You're-Joking_ look. "A cantina."

"Yeah. Got a problem with it?"

Tearing my gaze away from him to focus on my landing procedures, I quell the urge to make a snide retort. Yes, I _do_ have a problem with it. And not only because cantinas are such sordid, _uncivilized_ places, but it seems as though every time I enter one, something dreadful takes place. Or someone loses a limb. But I opt not to vent any of this at Anakin—he's not really part of this problem here, after all—so I merely shrug. "Local watering holes tend to be ideal spots for gathering information, I suppose."

"And people's tongue tend to get loosey-goosey when they've had a little bit too much—if you know what I mean."

I grimace, dour. "So you're not only cynical, but you're uncannily street-wise as well. Wonderful."

"Hey, we _need_ a couple of more street-smart Jedi," he retorts lightly, grinning. "We can't all be sissies like you."

"Yes. Well. It's being a 'sissy' that's kept me alive all these years. My greater sense of class and civility prevents me from mingling with the wrong crowd—who, I'm suspecting, is just the sort of group we'll be running into today."

"When we find that barve Ventress, she can give you a sticker and tell you how brave you were for abandoning all of your civility crap. But until then…" He trails off as our bikes settle atop a duracrete parking lot, then tosses me an amused glance. "But until then, I think you should let me do all the talking."

As we dismounting our bikes and make our way toward the cantina's gaudy entrance, I find myself shaking my head. Let _him_, Mr. Rush-In-Head-Long, Shoot-First-Ask-Questions-Later do the talking? Pardon my saying so, but the entire premise is _osik_. Barrels full of it, actually. Especially considering that I myself have earned the moniker "The Negotiator."

But I deign to sit back on this one. Just this once. Because sometimes, holding your tongue and simply _listening_—that's when you might learn something useful.

Like that time with Ventress, for instance.

It wasn't all that long ago, actually. Not at all. Maybe two or three months ago, in the aftermath of the Maul fiasco. Which was a pretty dreadful affair, all in all—I suffered some rather nasty wounds to body, mind, and spirit, and had to practically hobble away with my tail between my legs. But in the end, I learned something.

Something about Ventress.

I can recall the setting perfectly: we—Ventress and I—were aboard a freighter, which we had just gotten into hyperspace. Both of us were bruised, battered, bloodied, and were gasping from the effort of engaging Maul and his brother, Savage. I'd probably suffered a concussion, judging by the way the room appeared to tilt and whirl around me, and I starting to get the feeling that one of my ribs might be broken. Or completely shattered, given that every breath had became a painful cacophony of hacking and rattling.

But Ventress had made it through relatively unscathed, and she'd seemed oddly…open. Vulnerable. And willing to talk, so I'd simply sat back in the pilot's chair, allowing her to spill her life's story and so much more.

If what she was telling me was true, then it's a wonder she hadn't attempted to slit my throat as I listened to her tale…or that hadn't simply left me to Maul and Savage. She should've. She could've. But for whatever reason, she let me be, choosing instead to detail all of the ways her Order had failed her.

So perhaps this is why Anakin's so bent on finding her. Why he's fixated on this, and why he leapt into it with hardly a second thought. He doesn't like failing people, I know—when I was still Anakin's mentor, the mere hint of disappointment in my expression or body language would bring him perilously close to tears—and he doesn't want to make the same mistakes as the rest of the Order. He wishes to rise above all that, give Ventress a chance at the life denied her by the rest of the galaxy.

He wants to give her the life he knows—and the life Barriss will never fulfill.

The life Ahsoka left behind.

But once again: it's best not to dwell on the past. Better to move on, creating a newer, brighter reality—which is exactly what we're trying to do now, at this moment. Even in a grungy cantina, with its peeling paint and bawdy patrons, with its undeniable reek and seedy aura…we're changing something for the better. Well, _someone_, I should say—but right now, I'm entirely certain who that individual is.

Because we might just be changing Anakin.

_**(ANAKIN)**_

"Oh, _marvelous_."

Gaze roving the interior of the cantina, I ignore Obi-Wan's dry remark…and can't help but wonder if it's not entirely fitting. This place is…well, worse than I'd expected. Way worse. Most—if not all—of the patrons are punch-drunk, swaying on their feet or bursting out in fits laughter or rage, but they're still downing shots like parched ground. A few hands are playing absently with blasters, vibroswords, or other weapons, and as we arrive at the bar, I realize that some of these patrons are perilously close to using them—on us.

The bar-tender, a surly Nikto with hulking, muscle-wrought arms, turns at our approach. His expression is listless—bored, even. But then again, most Niktos tend to give off that impression, with their broad, nose-less faces and lazy, half-lidded eyes, and I don't let it sway me. Disinterested is good…especially when I already feel the gazes of more than a dozen armed, inebriated beings leveled at my back.

"Whaddya want?" The Nikto demands in his species intrinsically low, gravelly tones. "Haven't got all day, ya' know."

I want to point that down here, in the nether levels, it's never quite what most beings would label as 'day'. Or even twilight, for that matter. But just this once, I opt to mind my mouth: Niktos are a prickly species, a fact belied by their perpetual frowns and sour, winnowing gazes. Instead, I fish around inside my tunic…and produce a handful of glinting Republic credits. "I was hoping for a little info, actually. We're looking for someone, my buddy and I."

The Nikto spares Obi-Wan a contemptuous glance, then glowers at the lightsaber hilts swinging from our belts. "You Jedi?"

"Yeah," I admit, giving my hilt a little pat. "But what does it matter? Creds are creds, right? And I've got plenty of 'em."

"Creds are creds, but my honesty depends on a coupla things. Like if you're goin' after anyone I know, for starters."

"If you were friends with this woman, I'd be pretty surprised." I pluck a mini-holo project from my tunic, then activate it, allowing Ventress holographic form to blink into life. "You haven't seen her, by any chance?"

"She would dressed in similar manner to us," Obi-Wan adds, indicating our simple garb.

"What he said. And we wanna return these to her…"

Ignoring Obi-Wan's quizzical stare, I pull two objects from the folds of my tunic, then hold them out to the Nikto. He hesitates a moment, eyes scrutinizing me warily. Searching me for some veiled motive or agenda. Then he shrugs, his large, calloused hands closing around the twin devices.

As his fingers unfurl, the Nikto's normally heavy eyes widen. He shoots a glance at my lightsaber, its silvery hilt still clipped to my belt, then at Obi-Wan's. The contrasts between the objects he's holding and our lightsabers are stark, our glinting, cylindrical hilts juxtaposed with the pair of curving, ridged scabbards—but the similarities are undeniable. "This woman…she's…she's…"

I nod slowly. "A Jedi, yes. And my friend and I—we're worried for her. So the sooner we can get these into her hands, the better."

Although I don't acknowledge it, I'm acutely aware of Obi-Wan's expression, how it's suddenly gone from merely bemused to positively baffled. Which is to be expected, I guess. I mean, I not only neglected—er, forgot—to tell him that I'd stashed Ventress' lightsabers in my robes, but I also bluffed. Or lied, depending on your point of view, so I'm betting I'm due for a lecture—and soon.

Except the lying really isn't the heart of the issue at hand. At least, I doubt Obi-Wan'll see it that way—after all, he probably bends the truth more often than a Koruunai fox. Rather, it'll be what I've said that's going to concern him most, what I've implied with my oh-so-tiny fib.

I've called Ventress a Jedi.

This reckoning—this inevitable lecture, really—will have to go on a back-burner, though. It has to. Because I'm not sacrificing Ventress' future for a bloody lesson—and besides, I'm sick of Obi-Wan's rambling lectures. Really, _really_ sick of them, so I flick him a warning look. With any luck, the message'll get through his thick skull: _SCREW THIS UP, AND SO HELP ME, I'LL—_

"No," the bartender's saying. He unceremoniously dumps the hilts on the counter, then begins backing away, hands above his head. "No, I don't know nothin' about this woman. Just—take your creds and scram, Jedi."

Scowling, I shove both Ventress' hilts and the mini-holo into my tunic. "You can't make us go anywhere, pal. We're Jedi. We—"

Obi-Wan's hand closes around my left shoulder. "Anakin…"

Dangerously close to throwing a punch at someone—_anyone_-, I glower down my shorter friend. "What?"

"I'm getting the feeling that you're on the verge of starting something. So let's do what the man suggests: get out. _Now._"

"But—"

My protest barely leaves my lips before Obi-Wan's hand is on my back, guiding me out of the cantina. I try to say something else, tell him that I'm way too old for him to be leading me like a naughty child, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing _civilized_, anyway; all I can do is let myself be escorted to our speeder bikes, and watch Obi-Wan's expression fall into a lemony scowl.

Head down, I let out a breathy sigh. "Sorry, Obi-Wan. I didn't mean to get carried away like that, honest."

"Anakin, your _intentions_ are not the problem here: it's what you were _doing_—what you _are_ doing, right now—that are cause for concern." Eyes shutting, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I realize I've said this a thousand times, Anakin, but you're far too reckless. One wrong move back there, and we would've had a bar fight on our hands—or worse."

Another sigh. "I know."

In the force, my former mentor's pique flares like a solar wind. "If you knew half the things you claim, my friend, then we wouldn't be placed in situations like this. Obviously, you haven't learned your lesson yet. Otherwise, head-knowledge would translate into action, and—"

He stops, head tilting to one side as if he's listening for a breeze. So does mine. There's something stirring in the force—a warning, maybe—and it carries with it a mounting sense of foreboding, chilling me to the bone. I feel it moving behind us, looming above us, slinking through the shadows—but my iced-over senses can't place it. And neither can Obi-Wan, judging by how rigid his body's gone, hand poised stonily over his unlit lightsaber.

Then a single shot rings out, filling the incessant Underworld night with red noise and light.

A nanosecond before the blast bolt streaks by, I'm moving. Head tucked to my chest, I roll to the ground, then spring forward. Cat-footed, I land beside Obi-Wan, whose blade is now roaring and alive; I follow suit, igniting my own weapon. Together, are 'sabers hum a brilliant blue song, their burning light transforming the dank parking into an azure and ebony chiaroscuro.

Another shot is squeezed off, but this time, we're ready. Back-to-back, we move as a single being, our blades working to deflect the attack, our bodies in total harmony. In sync. To the casual observer, we might even appear to be engulfed in light, which isn't totally untrue: whirling faster than the sentient eye can track, our lightsaber carve an impenetrable shield of color, a display that would put off most attackers.

But I guess this being isn't your average pot-shot. Far from it. He keeps us on our toes, this guy; our blades are working furiously to bat away his constant fire, their white-hot hearts scorching the very air. And while we're certainly not lagging, I can feel Obi-Wan's fatigue beginning to manifest itself in the force—but honestly, I don't expect the stubborn barve to admit it. Or give up. So instead of flagging, he signals me to increase our tempo—and a heartbeat later, we're reward with the tell-tale sound of one of our deflected shots hitting home.

We hear a scream.

A _woman's_ scream.

Instantly, I deactivate my blade. Go pelting after the sound, a decision that has Obi-Wan in a exasperated—if not somewhat alarmed—tizzy. He's yelling for me stop, is filling the night with a shrill cacophony of _No, Anakin_, but I pay him no mind. The words _stop_, _no_, and _blast you, Anakin_ have long since been erased from my personal vocabulary— and besides, I don't think I could make myself stop, either. Not after I heard that scream, its blood-curdling notes splitting the night-silence in two.

I find her perched on the lip of a building, clutching her shoulder as if to keep it in place. Through the force, I can tell that there's been some pretty significant damaged—there's a lot of shredding, a lot of muscles and nerves that have been melted to gelatinous ooze—so I can't move her. At least, not by conventional means. Which leaves me with a sole option: the force.

Reaching out with, I gently lift the woman's body, and allow it to settle daintily on the ground. She stirs a bit, lifting her head gingerly to meet my gaze. Her eyes are slanted, I can tell: they're almond-shaped, too, and impossibly green (as is her hair). They contrast starkly with her skin, which is a smooth, hot pink set with a couple of tiny horns, and if I hadn't known better, I'd say she was a Zabrak. If her angular, wedge-shape head hadn't been screaming _I'm a Theelin_, that is.

Blade still ignited, Obi-Wan creeps warily toward me. "_Anakin."_

Tearing my gaze away from the Theelin female, I show him a bemused side-long glance. "_Relax_, Obi-Wan. She's not going to be filling us full of lasers for a while."

His mouth pinches into a thin, pale line. "It's not her that I'm concerned about."

And it's at that moment that I happen to glance up…and barely make out the shape of a Zabrak looming in the shadows.

_** (**__**OBI-WAN**__**)**_

Upon watching the Zabrak seemingly coalesce out of the shadows, I have two thoughts. One:_ it's_ him. _It's Maul, that brute I could've ended on Naboo. Should've rid the galaxy of once and for all._ And two…

Two: _no, it's _her_._

Falling into a ready-stance, I observe her amble forward, stepping into the light. She's around the same size as the Theelin, but her frame is slightly sturdier and more muscled, their cords rippling under her cream skin. Her eyes, surprisingly, are hazel, a fact which had passed my mind—and quite frankly, I'm baffled that it did. After all, Qui-Gon had hazel eyes, warm, youthful ones that crinkled with his smiles.

But then again, hers aren't like this. Not even a little. No, her gaze is cold, unwavering durasteel, their frigid pits glowering steadily up at me.

Then they flash with recognition. "Kenobi."

From where he's frozen to the ground—he went stock still as soon his eyes found her sliding through the darknesss—Anakin cranes his neck around. His brow shoots up, nearly melding with his hairline, and his eyes widen. Then twists the waist, angling himself to give me a full-on, dubious look. "Is that who I think it—"

"It is," I reply curtly, cutting him off. Still grasping my blade in guard position, I dip my head to the Zabrak. "I'd like to say it is a pleasure to cross paths with you once more, Sugi, but I'm afraid you'll need to clear some things up."

Pausing in mid-step, Sugi places a hand on her cocked hip, looking for the world like a brazen tea-cup. "I'm afraid you'll need to specify what those things _are_, Master Kenobi. Or I might be at liberty to treat you and Skywalker the same way I did the Theelin."

I blow out a long with-held breath, pushing a lock of copper bangs out of my face. She hasn't changed much since Felucia—she's still garbed in the same unremarkable leather tank and trousers, even—but her demeanor toward us certainly has. On that other world, we were allies, could trust her to remain unwaveringly at our side. Could even joke and banter with her, could see the softer, not-so battle-worn side of this rugged bounty hunter. But here…right now she's callous, is nailing me with a bloodless stare that I can't quite answer, and it has me frozen to the ground.

Only for a moment, though. Because I can feel my mind starting to sift through our options, churning through a sea of endless possibilities and outcomes, and I feel my body begin to thaw. In fact, I'm warm enough to feign a boyish half-smile, and cock a brow playfully over my scintillating eyes. "Please, Sugi. Call me Obi-Wan. At least, if we're to be civilized about this."

"That's bold talk for a man who still hasn't answered my question."

"Fine, then: I'd like to know if you were the one firing at us."

She folds her arms across her tiny chest. "Blame the Theelin for that."

"Now look who's dodging questions."

"Alright, alright. I'll give you a straight answer, _Obi-Wan_: I DIDN'T DO IT. And I wasn't a part of it, either." She spares a contemptuous glance at the Theelin, who's slipping rapidly into unconsciousness. "I was trying to bring her in for questioning when you two barves decided to waltz in."

Recovered now from his initial shock, Anakin straightens to his full, impressive height. Squares his shoulders. Rolls them a bit, allowing their ample muscles to dance beneath his robes. "Yeah? What _kind_ of questioning, then?"

Without shifting her gaze away from mine, she replies, "the kind that gets me who I'm looking for."

"Oh?" Extinguishing my blade, I pretend to loosen up, nonchalantly strolling toward the frigid Zabrak woman. Which isn't setting very good example for my former padawan, I realize—he tends to let his own guard slip far too often—but what choice do I have? To put her at ease with my demeanor, to lure her into complacency—that's vital. Paramount, even. So I turn the act up a notch, let my unlit lightsaber fall to the ground…and kick it away. "And who would that be, Sugi?"

A few feet off, Anakin stares at me, dumb-founded. He mouths something to me, forming urgent, clipped words with his taught lips—pleading with me, no doubt, to stop. To pluck my lightsaber off the ground and stop being such an idiot. That's what he perceives me as at the moment, judging by the way he slaps his palm to his forehead—or at least that's what _I_ gather from it. For all I know, something else could be going through his mind: _stop copying me_.

Because this is where I've pick up this trick—from him. From watching his cocky swagger, from observing his brazen grins and smirks and everything in between, I've discovered his secret. Have uncovered how he manipulates all his enemies into underestimating him, and why he always seems to have won before he's drawn his blade.

He disarms them with his personality.

But this strategy doesn't quite have the affect I've intended. I mean, she responds, yes—but not to me. Not to my tricks or dramatic flare, but because she wants to. She's made her mind up on this, has drawn the battelines, and in one sudden, unexpected statement…she steps over them.

"I'm after Asajj Ventress."

_**(ANAKIN)**_

An arm's span away from Sugi, Obi-Wan pauses, his mouth a thin, pale line. His expression is blank, turning into an unreadable, alabaster mask, and for a moment his eyes grow impossibly wide. He—we, actually—weren't expecting this, for another being to be tailing Ventress. It's…disconcerting. And alarming, given that bounty hunters rarely go it alone. Especially when it comes to _this_ particular individual: last time we crossed paths with her, she'd had three comrades at her side, and they'd all been downright lethal.

I'm about to remind Obi-Wan of this when he clasps his hands behind his back, regaining his detached Jedi cool. He flicks me a side-long-glance, one that has a bit of an air of warning to it, and I nod in acknowledgement. Yes, Obi-Wan: I know this is going to be tricky. And yes, I'm fully aware that I should keep my mouth shut, even if the sky starts raining Sith and Jawa juice. But… "Funny, 'cause we happen to be looking for Ventress ourselves."

My statement earns two very visible, very undeniable responses, and I fight not to react to them. I can't let either of them believe I'm swayed by other's opinions, by the stark bafflement etching Sugi's features. Can't let them know how Obi-Wan scorching, venomous glare is affecting me—if it affects me at all, that is-so I simply play the indifference card, shrugging haplessly at them both.

Eyes guarded, Sugi considers me dubiously. "And why would you be after someone like her, _General_ Skywalker? Mingling with the riff-raff hardly seems worth the trouble when you have your troops to command."

I open my mouth to make a snippy retort, but Obi-Wan winds up answering for me. "Ventress is hardly riff-raff, Sugi, and you know it. She's a war-criminal—a _Seperatist_ war-criminal, at that—who's to considered armed and dangerous."

The Zabrak woman smiles wanly. "That's why the Senate's put a bounty on her shiny head, Kenobi—bounty _I_ intend to collect." Curling a finger under his bearded chin, she tilts his head to one side, pats his cheek. "Whether or not you get in on the party is your choice, of course."

"If the Senate had truly wanted Ventress," he retorts, brushing her hands aside, "then they would've sent a Jedi. And judging by your apparently lack of civility, I would say that you hardly qualify as one."

Sugi cocks a slash-mark of a brow. "So this isn't an official mission?"

"If by 'official' you mean 'recognized and sanctioned by the Senate', then no. We're on Jedi business, and nothing more. Which could imply that I wish you step aside to allow this business to continue before someone gets hurt."

"Oooh, I'm _so_ scared."

"Jedi do not make idle threats, my dear."

"And they don't make it their business to go after wash-outs like Ventress, either. Not normally, anyway. So you're after either one or two things: justice, or Ventress' Jedi powers."

A flash of shock registers on my friend's face, then it fades into oblivion. He's good at concealing his emotions, this guy—but he's not great at it. At least, he's not fooling me. Not with the way his shoulders have stiffened, making him look as though he's been carved from icy duracrete. "Who told you she was a Jedi?"

"Well, _you_ did, actually. Just now." Half of her mouth tugs upward in a sly, lop-side grin. "But it wasn't any secret that she had some Jedi tricks up her sleeve, you know. She was always…what do you call it, anyway? 'Using the force'? 'Jedi-ing'?"

"I take it that you've met her on a prior occasion, then?"

She shrugs. "In the bounty-hunting world, pretty much everybody knows everybody. So yeah: I'm met her before. And from what I heard, you two are kinda chummy." A coy grin. "She says you were prepared to grant her amnesty."

Now it's my turn to be shocked. Baffled. Blown away—whatever. Because it doesn't matter how you describe it, or what word you use: it's still news to me, and it's big. So much so that I'm frozen in place, mouth hanging ajar while I await some sort of rebut from Obi-Wan, for him to say "not in _this_ lifetime, my friend."

But he never does. He just stands there, his expression superbly neutral, and doesn't say a word. Not any audible ones, at least; his silence speaks volumes, big, reverberating ones that answer for him.

_**(OBI-WAN)**_

___**(TWO MONTHS EARLIER)**_

Seated within a clunky, obtuse escape pod, Ventress and I drown in silence. Awkward, cloying noiselessness. The stars, after all, aren't going to offer any words; although they're streaking, screaming by in the miasma of light that is hyperspace, the void of space makes it impossible for them to produce a single sound. Or a whisper.

Wincing, I drag over my face, which is quickly becoming a patchwork of bruises and nettled flesh. Maybe we're too rattled to speak, too shaken. That skirmish with Maul—it would enough to steal away the voice of an army, let alone the voices of two mismatched, unprepared force-users. So to be silent is…normal. Expected. Encouraged, even, but I still find myself longing to break the quiet. And I do: swiveling my chair to face her, I ask Ventress where she thinks she'll go after this…or who she'll be.

Ventress frowns out at the viewscreen, her milky-blue irises brimming with the light of hyperspace. "I think you know the answer to that, Kenobi."

"Humor me, then. For old time's sake."

A sardonic grin touches her thin, knife-like lips. "Which old time? When I tried to kill assassinate you on Klantooine? Or when you tried to off me at the B'ommar monastery?"

"At the present moment, I define '_old times_' as '_any moment we met and weren't trying to cut one another to bloody ribbons_'."

"Ah. Well, that would be…" She glances up the ceiling, eyes rolling about their sockets. "That would be today, actually."

"Yes. Well. I can hardly say I'm surprised, can I?" I shake my head. "But forget that. I want to know what _you_ think will happen to you when we reach Coruscant."

"Besides getting arrested as a war-criminal? Gee, Obi-Wan. I'll have to think this one through…"

Yawning I sink into a more comfortable position, I consider her through half-lidded eyes. She's an exotic beauty, her. From her smoky, almond-shaped eyes to her svelte—yet somehow absolutely curvaceous—form, she's lovely to take in. Really, a man could spend hours gawking at her, imbibing all of her tantalizing allure—but underneath that, there's so much more. There's a lot of anger, for one thing; only an hour ago, she vented her spleen, detailing all of the ways the Jedi Order has failed her. And I listened. Nodded, because I couldn't disagree: for the all the good I believe the Order accomplishes, there are still those who managed to slip between the cracks.

But like her undeniable physical appeal, I have to look past that. I have to see _her_, and not simply the things that she's done, the deeds that continue to define her in the eyes of others. The veil of lethal beauty and anger—they'll have to be swept aside, revealing whatever looms beneath.

Under all the allure and rage, beneath the salacious exterior and wrathful interior, I see Anakin Skywalker.

She could be him, in all honesty. Or he could be her. That's how similar they are: so intertwined that it's nigh on impossible to determine where one being ends and the other begins. After all, they started life in much the same fashion, were both ripped from all they knew and held dear. And both were discovered—saved, really—by a Jedi: Anakin by Qui-Gon, obviously, and Ventress by a man of the name Ky Narec. Both these Jedi were killed, too, were taken before their time—and if Anakin hadn't had me to latch onto, he would've been forever lost in a deluge of fear and grief.

Like Ventress was, after the death of Ky Narec.

So the question is: is she evil? Is she guilty of war-crimes, of slaughtering thousands at the behest of her master, Count Dooku? Or is she simply a lost little girl, still weeping over the icy body of Narec?

Is Anakin merely a lost little boy?

Was he ever truly found?

Honestly, I don't believe I can answer any of these questions, so I don't even make an attempt. But I have realized one thing: we are all only a breath away from evil. All it takes is a single push, a misplaced step, an eye wandering to where it shouldn't…and it's over. We'll plunge downward—downward to place from which none return.

Because there is no going back.

But you can always go forward.

_**(**__**ANAKIN**__**)**_

___**(TWO MONTHS LATER)**_

Mouth still agape, I stare at my former mentor. Yes, he _did_ offer Ventress amnesty, and there's no denying it. He's always had a soft spot for her, after all, has believed the best about her—even when she was at her worst.

Obi-Wan seems to sense my gaze, and sends me a weary, _Don't-Be-So-Surprised_ glance askance. So he must know that I know, that I've guessed that Sugi's accusations—well, if you could call them that—are true. I've realized this mission was personal for him—deeply, intimately so—and that I'm not the only one who held out faith for Ventress' redemption.

With any luck, he's holding out the same faith for me.

But before I can question him on this, a shrill, insistent beep sounds from within Obi-Wan's robes, shattering the tense silence. Frowning, he fishes around his tunic, hands patting down his chest and sides until he produces the object: his comm.-link. Albeit a flashing, bleeping one, its tiny strobes of light and noise pleading for attention.

He flashes Sugi an apologetic look. "Please excuse me for a moment…"

Except…well, Sugi isn't exactly _there_. Not quite. She's simply disappeared, dissolving into the tangible chiaroscuro of the Coruscant Underworld, melding with the night wind. Which is a tad embarrassing for us, I guess: as Jedi, we should've sensed her slinking away, should've anticipated her moves before she made them. But judging by the rueful expression tingeing my friend's face, he might've already surmised that she was a possible flight risk.

At least the Theelin's still here, though. Only, it wasn't like she was just going up and walk away or anything; her wound is pretty nasty, and judging by the amount of shredding I sense went on, she's lucky that the blaster bolts are superheated. Otherwise, she would've already bled out through her subclavian artery, staining the duracrete a vibrant crimson.

Chewing my lip, I scrutinize the Theelin's unconscious form. Then I blink. Her eyelids—they're fluttering, struggling to peel open. To part and let the waking world rush in, banishing her cold, cold slumber, so Obi-Wan and I rush to her side. Stoop beside her, ears pricked for her voice.

A watery smile graces her thin lips. "I'm pretty good actress, aren't I? Could've been a holonet star…"

Obi-Wan scowls. "You were faking."

"Heck yeah, I did! Did a better dang good job at it, too, but I wasn't sure if I could keep it up much longer. I mean, that blasted Sugi looked as if she'd _never_ scram."

A small, quiet smile. "Yes. Well, I can assure you that you weren't alone in that opinion. She's a rather…troublesome…woman." Pursing his lips, he frowns down at her shoulder. "But actress or not, I'm afraid that this injury is quite serious. If we don't act soon, they'll be permanent nerve damage, and—"

"I know, I know. But honestly, I could care less. Ventress' life could be at stake here, you know—especially if what I heard from my buddies is true."

My heart thuds painfully within my rib cage, filling my ears with a drumming, staccato pulse. I can tell where this going. At least, I _think_ I do—but somewhere, deep down, I know this is more than a hunch. It's a _knowing_, a grasping of a truth so painful that I want to sink to my knees…and never again rise to my feet.

Because it's the same fate Ahsoka met.

"She been taken into custody," I blurt, eyes stretching wide.

The Theelin nods faintly. "She was taken this morning, actually. Trust me—I was there."

Sighing, Obi-Wan fixes with a steady blue stare. "Do you have any idea who took her?"

Another nod. "Yeah, but you aren't gonna like it…"

___**(OBI-WAN)**_

In my secret, shrouded parts, I wish this weren't happening. I really do. If it were up to me, if destiny and fate had been placed firmly in my grasp, things would be going different—would be brighter. There'd be no racing through the Coruscant Justice Building, Anakin hard on my heels as I weave through jaded, labyrinthine corridors, and there'd be no questions whizzing through my head; there'd be just be Ventress, unshackled feet padding along behind us.

If I were in control, Ventress wouldn't be answering for her crimes.

As Anakin and I reach the cold, antiseptic corridors of the Dentention Level, my mind—the logical, concrete part of me—is saying that she's getting what deserves. That's she's had her just desserts heaped high on her plate, and that I should simply abandon her to this fate. There's no arguing with justice, after all; it's blind, deaf, impossibly callous. And it's heavy-handed, so there's no chance of alleviating her sentence.

She'll rot in this cell for the remainder of her days under the sun.

But my heart…it's whispering something altogether different. It's conceded that Ventress has done wrong, yes—because really, even she cannot deny this. Cannot hide from it, showering it in good deeds or fragile justifications—but she has ventured away from this path. She's taken a different road, a higher, harder one that glints in the waning sun, and that's where I want her to stay.

Funny, how I've come to care so much. At first, Ventress and I were a contradistinction: she the enemy, her darkened form silhouetted against my fierce light. But as the years went by—and after our shared encounter with Maul—I've come to realize that she's far more than her jaded past…and that her future could be something of true splendor.

She could be what Anakin is now.

Or Anakin could be pushed over the edge, toppling into the black cesspool what she _was_.

Pausing before her cell's maw-like entrance, I hope this will never be the case. Because he's fragile, that boy. The lines he walks—it's precarious, thin, and oh-so tenuous. One wrong step, and he will become a twisted, bitter creature, striking out on all he has.

On all he has left, that is.

So that's why Anakin care, then: he's seen himself in her. He's recognized his faults, seen them mirrored in her alluring, pain-etched countenance. And he's decided that to do this, to wrest Ventress away from this wild, downward spiral, will be a way to atone for…something. Or everything.

And perhaps this is why I asked him to accompany me on this mission in the first place.

But—no. I can't dwell on this. I simply_ can't_. I have to center myself on the Here-And-Now, like Qui-Gon was always urging me to, and let all else slip between my splayed fingers. Have to force myself to meet the unblinking, t-visor stare of a helmeted clone-guard as he checks our IDs…and to forget all else.

"Lucky for you," he says, handing us back our IDs, "the Supreme Chancellor requested that General Skywalker be allowed to interview the prisoner as she awaits trial." He spares a glance at me, shrugs. "Sorry, General Kenobi, but it looks like the Chancellor hasn't granted you permission to speak with Ventress. You'll have to remain here with me while the interview is taking place."

If were possible for hearts to drop, mine would've straight into Coruscant's molten center. It's not that this comes as a total shock—since boyhood, Anakin's always had close ties with Chancellor Palpatine, and he's allowed political privileges most can only dream of. And it's not that I wasn't expecting this rejection, either, because I'm fully aware of how fickle prejudices of Republic Justice truly are. Here, the issue at-hand is that I feel as though I've failed; in fact, _I know_ I have, know it in the pit of my gut. By not speaking to her—even if it's merely circumstance preventing me from it—I've let her down…again.

And I could just as easily fail Anakin.

But I let all of this go, too. I mean, it's out of my hands now, has been stripped from them and left them raw and bloodied, so there's nothing I can do. And there's no going back, revisiting the what-ifs and should-haves and the ever-lingering past.

All that remains is the way out.

"Go on, Anakin," I say. "It's time to finish this."

_**EPILOGUE:**_

_**(FROM THE DIARY OF ASAJJ VENTRESS)**_

_ For reasons unknown, I strongly suspect that this'll be my final entry. Which is ironic, come to think of it; this entry, believe it or not, is my first in this particular journal. You see, I ran out of room in the first one (I've had it since I was a child), forcing me to use this spare. A shame: I really ought to have recorded my last words, my final, resounding _coda_, at the end of my old journal._

_ Not at the beginning of the new._

_ As I write this, I can see a pair of familiar heads just outside my cell, bowed as though overtaken by spontaneous reverence. And I recognize them, too: Kenobi and Skywalker. My enemies—or at least they were, back in that old life. Back when I was bent on shrinking away from the light, clasping my hands over my eyes like a cowed little girl._

_ One of them—Skywalker—pauses before the entrance to my cell, frowning. There's no door there (all that separates me from the outside world is a thin veneer of crimson ray shield), but for a long while he doesn't appear to see me. Or he doesn't want to, is recoiling from me as I did to the light; either way, though, he looks troubled. And very, very desperate. _

_ When the ray shield finally sizzles away, he's still standing there, eyes staring dead into mine…or through them. Then he blinks. Shakes his head. Steps into my tiny, claustrophobic cube of a cell, and clears his throat._

_ Skywalker: Hey._

_ Me: Hey, yourself. (A frown) Obi-Wan's not coming in?_

_ Skywalker: Can't. No other Jedi have been permitted to speak with you, it turns out. Except me, of course._

_ Me: Yes. Of course._

_ Skywalker: He's…he's your friend, right? After that thing with Maul, I—(he pauses, brow knitting into a 'V') Hey, what's with all the writing? Are you acting as your own stenographer or something?_

_ Me: Maybe, and no—this is just my journal. My diary. Whatever. (I shrug) I figured that these might I not make it to my hearing alive, so I decided to record my final hours in it._

_ Skywalker: (Regards me quizzically.) And they just, you know, _let_ you bring that with you? Into a prison?_

_ Me: (A sly smile.) A little force persuasion can get a girl a long way, Skywalker._

_ Skywalker: You weren't using any of your…other…forms of persuasion when Obi-Wan offered you amnesty, were you?_

_ Given his hesitation, I think I know what 'other forms of persuasion' he's referring to. I used to be a bit of temptress, I guess, with my form-fitting, cleavage-bearing body-suit, and I doubt he's forgotten that. Kenobi didn't, after all: he was still a tad flirtatious with me when we were dueling Maul and Savage, as if we were still locked in our coquettish game of amorous banter. As if we were still enemies, save for that slight, edgy appeal he must've found in me._

_ Me: If you're wondering whether or not I seduced him, the answer is no. He just happened to be in a particularly generous mood, that's all._

_ Skywalker: (Nods to himself.) Alright, alright. So…was that it, then? He just…offered you amnesty, out of the blue?_

_ Me: I told him my life-story. How I got to the sorry state I'm in today._

_ Skywalker: (Raises a brow.) He never told the Council any of this. And he didn't include it in his report, either._

_ Me: Because it wasn't relevant, I guess. But you're missing the point: the point of why you're here in the first place, asking me all these questions. (I give him a meaningful look.) You're wondering if I've really changed._

_ Skywalker: Oh, really?_

_ Me: Really. I can sense it—your curiosity, your interest. Because you have to know: is it possible for someone like me—someone so twisted by the dark side—to ever return to the light? Could I ever find my way back? (I smile weakly.) Obi-Wan thought I could—and he probably _still_ thinks that, even though I'm sitting here in a karking prison. _

_ Skywalker: I take it that Obi-Wan's amnesty offer wasn't valid, then?_

_ Me:_

_ Skywalker: Ventress…_

_ I can't go back to that place. To that time. It's just too dark, too clouded, to return to. So the only other place I can go, that I can run to…is forward._

_ Me:_

_ Me:_

_ Me: I refused it._

_ The shock in Skywalker's expression is blatantly apparent. Palpable, even, because he still perceives me as the old Ventress. As the swindler. As the alluring, manipulative seductress, but not as I am now. Not as I always was, somewhere beneath all that hatred and raw appeal, under all the scars and memories and wars endured._

_ Inside, I have always been Ky Narec's padawan._

_ I have always been a scared little girl, waiting for someone to reach down and carry me out of the pit._

_ Skywalker: Why—?_

_ Me: That day, I realized that I have done some pretty awful things: things that need to be punished. Things that will always have consequences, one way or another, so I chose to stop running from them. But for a while, I broke that promise: I kept running. Didn't own up to what I'd done, or what I'd been. (My gaze slithers away, dropping to stare through the floor.) Today, I decided to end that…and turned myself in._

_ Skywalker:_

_ Me: But back to your question—have I changed? Yes, I think I have. Because if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here now, wouldn't have seen my own faults or even felt them._

_ Me: I wouldn't have started down a new path._

_ Skywalker: So you're saying you just…surrendered yourself to the Republic Authorities? Because that's not what I heard. A woman—a woman who claims to be your friend—seemed to think you were taken against your will. (Arches a dark eyebrow.) Was she wrong?_

_ Me: (Chuckles softly.) Depends on your definition of 'taken'. Throwing a fight you could win can sometimes be construed as…surrender._

_ Skywalker: Now you're starting to sound like Obi-Wan._

_ Me: Is that a compliment?_

_ Skywalker: (Shrugs, hapless.) Yeah. Well. Maybe—or maybe not._

_ Me: I figured as much. Wish him good-bye for me, will you? _

_ Skywalker: Ventress…please. Don't do this. I can get you out—make you _free_…"_

_ Me: Free from what? This cell? From blame? (I shake my head.) As long as run from my past, Skywalker, I'll never be free. I'll be a slave. But my owning up to my misdeeds, by following this new, bright path, I'm choosing something far better: when I die, I'll be one with the force. Just like every other Jedi—because I believe it's the only way. To truth._

_ Skywalker reacts visibly to the word 'slave', but he doesn't bother to elaborate on that. He's just…watching me. Watching me write, write, write away in my diary._

_ Skywalker: Can I give that to him? To Obi-Wan?_

_ Me: No._

_ Skywalker: No? Why not? He—_

_ Me: I want _you_ to have it._

_ Skywalker:_

_ Skywalker:_

_ Skywalker: Oh._

_ Because he knows why I'm offering this to, and not to Obi-Wan. Knows that Obi-Wan, despite his good heart, doesn't always see the brightness in others. Doesn't always see the good lingering beneath the heavy, heavy dark—and sometimes, doesn't even look._

_ He believes Skywalker's on the verge of becoming someone else, you know. I can see it his eyes. In the guarded, pained ache in their soft blue depths, because he hasn't yet discovered what I have._

_ No matter what you do, no matter how far you've strayed, you will always be you. _You_, and not some fallen creature. Not some monster in need of redemption._

_ Because actions don't define us._

_ Our beliefs do._

___**(THE END)**_


End file.
